Perfect Page 9

  Weezy smiled and said, "Good morning, Isabelle."

  I looked from my mother to Weezy and hack again. "Good morning," I said.

  My mother said, "Are you hungry, sweetie? We've got bagels."

  "Okay," I said, and went on to butter myself a poppy seed bagel, because actually I was starving.

  At Ashley's house, she made a gigantic breakfast, enough for the whole eighth grade, but I didn't feel like eating. When I looked at it, all I could think about was that we would have to throw it up after. I told Ashley I had to he home early, I didn't have time to eat.

  I could tell she was upset, but she pretended not to he.

  "I'm really sorry I can't stay, Ashley," I said. "I would if I could. It's just that I promised I'd be home by-"

  "That's okay, Isabelle." Ashley smiled and shook her head like it was no big deal. "My brothers will he up soon," she said. "They'll he hungry."

  But I knew that after I left she would eat it all herself.

  I was glad to be here in my own kitchen, eating a bagel.

  Ape Face said, "Doesn't Mom look pretty, Isabelle?"

  I swallowed a big bite. "Uh-huh." To my mother I said, "Why are you all dressed up?"

  Weezy reached over to pour her clone more coffee. "Your mother and I are going out," she said, "for some quality sister time."

  I thought, quality and sister should not be used together in the same sentence.

  My mother said, "You don't mind holding down the fort, do you Isabelle? Looking after your sister?"

  I took another bite of bagel, shrugged.

  Ape Face said, "I don't need looking after."

  I said, "I don't think I'm strong enough to actually hold down the fort. This is one big fort we've got here. This fort 1S-

  Aunt Weezy leaned over and pinched my arm, gently.

  "Okay," I said.

  Aunt Weezy patted my hand, smiled.

  Me and Ape Face sitting at the kitchen table. Quality sister time.

  "Mom looked weird," I said, "with all that makeup on. Like a clown."

  "I think she looked nice," said Ape Face.

  "You would."

  "Aunt Weezy did it all. The clothes and the makeup, everything. She did her hair. Didn't her hair look nice, Belle?"

  "It looked like a helmet."

  Ape Face snickered. "It kind of did."

  "I know."

  Ape Face bent over and picked a Cheerio up off the table with her tongue, like a lizard. She does things like that, gross things. Like flipping her eyelids inside out and burping the alphabet. Things that make you want to smack a person upside the head. "I'm glad she's going out though," Ape Face said. "Maybe she'll come home happy."

  "Right," I said.

  I watched Ape Face tongue another Cheerio, chew it with her mouth wide open. Before she could do it a third time I picked up all the strays on the table and threw them in a bowl.

  "Hey!" she said.

  "Hay is for horses, but grass is much cheaper. You want help with your stupid family tree project or what?"

  Finding the photos was easy. We just looked under her bed, in a big cardboard box marked "Jacob." If she didn't want us to find them, it wasn't a very good hiding place.

  "Well," said Ape Face, "I guess she didn't throw them out after all."

  We took off our shoes, climbed up on Mom's bed, which was made for a change, with clean sheets. Probably Aunt Weezy did that.

  Right away Ape Face reached into the box and started yanking out clumps of photos with both hands.

  "Don't!" I said. "You'll mess them up!" I wanted us to take our time, look at each picture together. Slowly. When a person dies and you suddenly find his pictures, that's how it is.

  "Sorry," said Ape Face. "I just want to see them so had."

  "You think I don't?" I pulled the box toward me. "Let's do them one at a time."

  "Okay." Ape Face moved over next to me so our elbows were touching, which would usually hug me but didn't for some reason.

  We both sat so still, barely breathing, looking at every photo. Mom and Daddy on the beach, tan and smiling, holding umbrella drinks. Daddy on the ski slopes, goofy in goggles. The four of us Lees eating hot dogs in the backyard.

  When we got to the bottom of the pile, the last photo, Ape Face leaned over and put her chin on my shoulder. "I miss him, Isabelle. I still do, so much." Then, suddenly, she pulled away. "Do You?"

  "Of course!" I said. "God, April!"

  "I know. It's just sometimes, you know, I don't know. We never talk about him, so I think I'm the only one."

  "Well, you're not."

  We both got quiet for a second, looking down at the pictures all spread out.

  April picked one up-Daddy and Mom dancing-and held it in her lap. "Do you cry ever?"

  "Yes!"

  "You do? When?"

  "I don't know. When ... in my room and stuff, when I'm alone. At night mostly."

  "Really? Me too." She put her hand on my knee. "At night in my room."

  "Mom too." I started laughing then, not because it was funny but because it was so stupid. "You cry in your room. I cry in my room. Mom cries in Mom's room. And in the morning everyone pretends like they never cried once in their life. Like, `It's gonna be a great day, kids! Pass the orange juice!"'

  "I know!"

  April put the picture hack in the pile. Then she bounced up off the bed. "Come on, Isabelle. We have to go.

  "Go where?"

  "Go get poster hoard and glue sticks and stun. And some stickers. And ... You know, those markers that smell like fruit."

  "Okay, but I already got you poster hoard."

  "You did?"

  "Uh-huh. Two pieces, in case you mess up. Purple."

  "You did? Purple?"

  "Uh-huh. It's in my closet."

  "You're the best sister, Isabelle. Seriously."

  "Well," I said. "Not the best."

  "Okay. Maybe not the best, but close."

  Mom walked in the door carrying two bags of groceries. "Oh, Isabelle. You already made dinner. Thank You."

  I told her it wasn't me, it was her other daughter. Yessiree, we were in for a real treat. Spaghetti a la Ape Face.

  I ran upstairs to Project Central. "Listen," I said, "Mom's home. Put that somewhere she won't see it, quick."

  Ape Face slid the photos and poster hoard under her bed.

  In the kitchen, Mom was pouring milk into glasses, which seemed to match with her Aunt Weezy outfit. What didn't match was her face, pale and pinched looking.

  She turned on the smile for dinner though, as usual. "How was your day? No fighting, no biting, I hope."

  "No fighting, no biting," said Ape Face. "Right, Isabelle?"

  "Right," I said. Almost the truth, if you don't count the two swears I called her and the glue stick she threw at my head. This is what happens when Ape Face refuses to use a pencil and starts right in with the markers like an idiot. Lucky for her I bought two pieces of poster board.

  "How was your day?" I asked my mother.

  "Nice."

  "Nice?" said Ape Face. "That's it?"

  "No, it was ..." Mom twirled a forkful of spaghetti, set it down again. "It was lovely. I guess I'm just tired from all the walking around we did." She looked at us and smiled. "I'm fine though."

  I so much did not want to hear the words tired or fine anymore. My mother needed to come up with some new words for her vocabulary. Preferably some that weren't lies.

  I wanted to scream at her, but I managed to keep my voice calm. "Mom," I said, "April and I were talking, and we really want to celebrate Hanukkah this year. It's been two years since we celebrated, and we miss it."

  My mother picked up a napkin off the table and folded it in half. Then in quarters. Then in eighths.

  "Mom?" I said.

  She continued busily folding until there was nothing left to fold, until it was just a tiny napkin stub. Then she picked up another napkin.

  "Mom?" April said.

  "Yes."
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  "Can we do it?"

  My mother stopped folding and looked at April. Then at me. Then said, "I don't think so. No. Not this year."

  "But Morn," said April.

  "Why not?" I said. "Give us one good reason. And don't tell us you're too tired to have this conversation because it has nothing to do with tired. And don't say we'll do it next year because we won't."

  She stood up, still holding the second napkin. "I can't do it, girls. It's that simple.... I just ... can't do it."

  "You don't have to," I said. "We'll do it. Me and April. We'll do the whole thing."

  "Yeah," said April. "You won't have to lift a finger. You can just show up and eat latkes."

  We watched Morn's face getting red, her eyes start to water. "That's not the point," she said. "I'm sorry, girls. No. The answer is no." She pressed the napkin to one wet eye, then the other.

  Under the table, April nudged me. I nudged her back, not to push her away, but to let her know I was glad she was there.

  19

  TRISH WANTS US TO JOURNAL constantly. If she had her way we'd he journaling every hour on the hour, until Our hands cramped up into claws. Until our eyeballs popped Out.

  At first, journaling was the opposite of what I wanted to do, it was like torture staring at all that blank space. But then I started carrying my journal around with me to school like one of my regular notebooks, just in case the mood struck. And then, this one day, I wrote something. Perched on the toilet seat in a girls' bathroom stall.

  What happened was I had lunch at Ashley's table for a hunch of days. The first couple of times I sat there I could feel Nola and Georgie's eyes boring into me the whole time, curious. And Paula's, jealous. But after a few days they stopped looking over, like they'd forgotten all about me. Which was okay because I had all these new friends. I sure did. Maya and Arielle and Jessie and Hannah and Heather and Talia and Sasha and Eliza. And, of course, Ashley. And I was having a wonderful time. I sure was. I was surrounded by the most popular girls in school, who wore all the right clothes and said all the right things and got invited to all the right places. And of course they were thinking, Thank goodness Ashley introduced us to Isabelle, because now our little family is complete.

  But no. It wasn't that way at all. Not even close. It didn't matter how much Ashley Barnum liked me, I still didn't cut it. I was like a troll at a Barhie picnic.

  Every day I ate at the center table I would run to the girls' room after lunch and throw up. But one time I sat there for a while thinking about what Trish is always saying to us. "Before you throw up, HALT. Ask yourself, how are you feeling? Are you hungry? Angry? Lonely? Or tired?"

  And for once I took the pencil out of my mouth, wiped the spit off on my jeans, and wrote something. I wrote one word. Lonely.

  Then, when the hell rang, I closed my journal and ruined everything by puking anyway.

  "What makes you think you ruined everything?" Trish asked.

  It was Tuesday again, four o'clock. The difference between this time and last time was I started talking the minute I sat down. I told Trish all about Ashley and the center table. Only I gave Ashley a code name. Penelope Lutz, after this girl I knew from nursery school, who moved to Oregon. Plus, I brought my journal, which actually had some writing in it now. In a way, I regretted bringing it. I didn't want Trish to get excited over nothing.

  "Isabelle?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You said you `ruined everything' by throwing up. What did you mean by that?"

  "Like you told us. You want us to journal when we feel HALT feelings, right? Instead of throwing up, we should journal, you said. Right?"

  Trish nodded.

  "Well, I did. I wrote something. But then I still made myself throw up anyway, so what was the point?"

  "Well. How did you feel while you were writing?"

  "Okay ... I guess."

  "You felt okay."

  "Yeah."

  "And after?"

  "After I journaled or after I barfed?"

  "After you journaled. Did you feel better?"

  "I don't know. I guess so. Yeah."

  "All right, then," Trish said. "I would call that progress."

  "Progress?"

  `.Yes.

  "Even though I threw up anyway?"

  Trish nodded. "Even though you threw up anyway. The progress, Isahelle, shows in your decision to try something else first. You were feeling badly, and what did you do? You wrote in your journal. You put your feelings on paper. Okay, so you threw up afterward. But next time, maybe you won't. Next time, maybe the writing will be enough."

  I thought about this, then said, "What if it isn't?"

  "If it isn't, we'll try something different."

  I leaned hack in my chair, rocked a little. I looked at Trish and thought, We. We'll try something different. Me and Trish.

  "Bingeing and purging is not an easy cycle to break, Isahelle. Changing those habits, those deeply ingrained ways of dealing with your emotions, doesn't happen overnight. It takes practice and patience and hard work. But you can do it, and I can help you. Are you willing to let me?"

  I looked at Trish. Her crazy red hair harretted hack on two sides, like a little kid's. Her eyes on mine, waiting.

  "Yeah."

  Trish smiled. "Okay then."

  I took a minute to picture myself, helped. Me, Isabelle Lee, a regular person eating regular meals and not throwing them up afterward. Not sitting on the floor of my closet stuffing Doritos down my throat, or sneaking down the stairs in the middle of the night to raid the refrigerator. Not having to cover my ears with a pillow sandwich and hum all the time.

  Trish said, "What about your friend Penelope?"

  "Who.?"

  "Your friend Penelope. Lutz, is it? From the center table. Tell me about her."

  Ah yes, my good friend Penelope Lutz. "What can I say ... she's perfect."

  "Perfect?"

  "Uh-huh. She's got the hair, the body, the clothes. Everything. Boys drooling all over her. A million friends. You know. Smart. At least I think she's smart. I used to think so, until ..."

  "Until?" Trish said.

  I pretended to he very interested in the toothpaste splotch on my shirt. I frowned and picked at it with my fingernail. How could I tell Trish about the Cliffs Notes without telling her about me snooping? Which was worse, a cheater or a snoop?

  "Isabelle?"

  "She's just ... trust me, okay? She's perfect. She's, like, the person everyone wants to he friends with."

  Trish nodded. "She sounds great."

  "Uh-huh."

  Trish was quiet for a minute. Then, "Isabelle?"

  "Yeah."

  "Have you ever heard of something called the halo effect?"

  I shook my head.

  "I want you to read something." Trish stood up and walked over to a bookshelf filled with hooks. She picked out a fat blue one, flipped through it until she found what she was looking for. "Here. Page 172."

  Trish put the book down on the desk, slid it toward me. She tapped the spot with her finger. "Start here."

  I leaned in and squinted at the tiny writing. The halo effect occurs when major character traits influence the overall impression, leading perceivers to infer trait information beyond what is actually given-

  "Is this English?" I asked.

  Trish smiled. "Keep reading. I'll translate in a minute."

  Attractive people are usually viewed as more socially capable, more influential, adjusted, and intelligent. The effect of attractiveness -"what is beautiful is good" -may be attributed to the halo effect.

  I looked up. "Whatever that means."

  "What it means is that people who are good-looking, people who are beautiful like your friend Penelope, are often perceived as being perfect simply because they are beautiful. We're so blinded by the prettiness, we don't see the imperfections. We don't see them as real people, with real flaws. In fact, we see them as smarter, nicer ... cooler than the average person."

&
nbsp; "Huh," I said.

  Later that night, I thought about it. The halo effect. I pictured Ashley floating through the halls of school with her little gold halo on, everyone staring at her, thinking she was so great, that she had this great life.

  Then I thought about the other things I knew about her. How she thought she was so fat even though she wasn't, how she made herself throw up all the time, and used Ex-Lax, and how her parents were hardly ever home. I remembered what Ashley said in Group that one time, about the girls in the magazines. "You can't always tell, just from looking."

  At first I thought about calling her. I started to. But then I didn't. I lay in bed for a long time, wondering what it was really like to be Ashley Barnum.

  20

  AUNT WEEZY SHOWED UP AGAIN on Saturday morning, early, when I was the only one up. She was wearing a line green cardigan and carrying a loaf of banana bread wrapped in cellophane. Instead of the drop earrings, she had on tiny pearl studs.

  She followed me into the kitchen and I found a platter for the banana bread. She took a knife out of the silverware drawer and started slicing. "So. How are you doing, honey?"

  I took a glass out of the cupboard, poured myself some juice. "Okay."

  Weezy lowered her voice. "Your meetings? With the counselor? Are they helping?"

  I nodded, picked up the juice and swirled it. "Kind of. Yeah."

  "Good." Weezy took a breath, nodded. "Good.... So, I've gotten the name of a therapist, a grief counselor. And I've gone ahead and made your mom an appointment for next week."

  "Aunt Weezy," I said. "No offense, but she's going to freak. She'll be so mad."

  Weezy put the knife down and started arranging banana bread into the shape of a fan. "I know. But I have to do something. I can't just stand by pretending everything's fine."

  I leaned my hip against the counter, whispered, "That's what she does. Pretends everything's fine all the time. Even though it isn't."

  "I know it isn't, sweetheart. That's why I'm here." Weezy turned and looked at me, put a sticky hand on my arm. "I'm sorry I didn't know sooner, Isabelle. I just didn't realize."

  "No. It's okay."

  She nodded. "It will be. I can promise you that."